De Guiche
[recoiling'].
Good, good ! let it be so ! . . . He 'a raving mad !
Cyrano
[walking up to him].
I say from the moon ! I mean no metaphor ! ...
De Guiche.
But . . .
Cyrano.
Was't a hundred years - a minute, since ?
- I cannot guess what time that fall embraced ! -
That I was in that saffron-coloured ball ?
De Guiche
[shrugging his shoulders].
Good ! let me pass !
Cyrano
[intercepting him].
Where am I ? Tell the truth !
Fear not to tell ! Oh, spare me not ! Where ? where ?
Have I fallen like a shooting star ?
De Guiche.
Morbleu!
Cyrano.
The fall was lightning-quick ! no time to choose
Where I should fall - I know not where it be !
Oh tell me ! Is it on a moon or earth.
That my posterior weight has landed me ?
De Guiche.
I tell you, Sir ...
